I had my camera with me, but my expectations were quite low on this cold December morning. As I climbed out of the car, I questioned whether I should put on a knit cap that I could pull down over my ears. I decided my hiking hat would be fine. I did take my gloves, stuffed in my pocket just in case; these old hands get cold. I wore a heavy gray jacket, with a dark cotton scarf around my neck.
I opened the trunk and pulled my camera and 70 mm to 200 mm lens out of the bag. I attached the camera strap and closed the trunk. Standing at the back of the car, I flicked on the camera to make sure the battery was working. I could not remember if I had charged it. And I hadn’t. It still had some charge but in this cold weather I would not get very many photos. That probably didn’t matter. In the dead of winter, at least at this park, there are few opportunities for landscape photography. A walk in the park without photography is still a walk in the park. I almost put the camera back in the bag; but I didn’t.
I headed out.
“Dead of winter” is such an appropriate phrase. Everything seemed lifeless, no honking or quacking as I approached the lookout at the beaver ponds. No small birds around. I hadn’t even seen a squirrel.
The boardwalk up to the platform was stiff from the cold, sounding hollow as my boots tramped along. Typically, I would be crouching and walking softly right now, trying to sneak up on whatever wildlife might be feeding nearby. That seemed pointless. The wide expanse of ponds was deserted, the surrounding forest, was quiet and looked a greyish brown, barren of leaves. The water looked cold, except for a small part that was being lit up by the sun peeking over the trees and around a great blanket of clouds.
I stepped out onto the platform and walked to the edge, leaning against the frosty wood railing. Out in the distance, directly in front of me, were those tall trees I often speak of, with empty Heron nests. To my immediate left was a dam built by beavers, and below that, a wide and slow-moving body of water, curving out of sight in the distance, where it eventually joined the Reedy River. To my right, about fifty feet away, was a thin line of scrub trees that had grown on another, and much older, beaver dam. The dam created acres of beaver pond, with tall weeds at the far edge and forest beyond that.
I looked up to the cloudy sky above the trees and saw a tiny dot, some sort of bird that appeared to be headed in my direction. I watched intently. It drew closer. Too small to be a goose, it must certainly be a mallard. And it was flying quite fast, descending toward the water. It was going to land, probably somewhere out there beyond the dam.
I lifted my camera, just in case. A photo of a flying mallard is better than nothing, and likely all I’ll get today. As he got closer, I tried to click off a few shots, but it was impossible to gain focus on something headed directly at me at such high speed.
He didn’t land where I thought he was going to land. He kept coming, still headed in my direction. And he didn’t seem to be slowing down. He sped past the thin line of scrub trees and then into the water. It was a clean splashdown, but he hit the water hard. The force of his landing carried him directly in front of me, creating a big wake in the pond water, as I stood there on the lookout platform, clicking the shutter button furiously.
It was a beautiful bird. But he didn’t stay long. Seconds later, he was up in the air, headed toward the river. I tried to get a shot of him taking off, but the battery was too weak, and my camera buffer was still full. Nothing happened.
A couple of hours later I was back home at my computer, looking at the photos. Most of them were out of focus or blurry. My shutter speed was too slow to capture fast action. But one photo, the photo you see today, was perfectly clear. By the time I clicked this photo, the mallard had slowed down enough that my shutter speed was sufficient.
Wow!
I knew the bird was beautiful, but I had only seen him for a second and then he was gone. On my computer screen, his colors seemed magnificent. He looked strong and proud. I got one good photograph that day and every time I look at it, I’m glad I took my camera.